CHAPTER VIII
Kabba, Semolika and Patti Abaja
It was not until the end of July that I found myself ‘touring’ once again, when we started for Kabba. It was interesting and pleasant going over the same ground that we had covered two years before; and characteristic of the country that there was not a single change to be noticed on the road: the little Hausa farm, somewhat expanded, perhaps; Oduapi as loud and genial as ever, with the blue and green gown apparently standing the test of time and wear most satisfactorily!
At Kabba things were altered for the better. The old quarters had been pulled down and new ones built; police barracks had sprung into existence; and a general air of progress and prosperity was there. We stayed a few weeks, and the place took such a hold on our affections, that, at the risk of appearing sentimental, I will give some description of it here. My enthusiasm is the more excusable when I recall that the High Commissioner himself expressed unqualified admiration for Kabba, even after his long tour, during which he had visited nearly every part of the Protectorate.
It is, in itself a small and insignificant town in the centre of the Province, it is not on the way to anywhere in particular—anywhere, that is, that draws the stream of Europeans so ceaselessly passing up and down the highways of the Protectorate; it has no great political importance to drag it into prominence, no Emirate, with all the pomp and circumstance attending a powerful native ruler; it has none of the halo of mystery and attraction which hovers over Kano, Sokoto and the North generally; nor is it on the path of the immense caravans which throng the Northern routes. These either end their journey at Ilorin, and return North, laden with fresh merchandise, or else, passing down through Nassarawa, divide themselves into small canoe-loads, when they meet the Niger at Loko. Kabba only sees those humble traders, who, in twos and threes, are carrying native-made cloth to Lokoja, or returning with loads of potash; in fact, the little place just sits there, a tiny mouse-coloured town, snugly tucked away on the slopes of a thickly wooded hill-side, in one of the very quietest backwaters of all the world’s rushing and scurrying tide.
Mureji—A Caravan about to cross the Niger. ([p. 110])
A Steam Canoe on the Niger. ([p. 116])
Picture to yourself a green—truly emerald green—plain, holding an area of, roughly, ten square miles, dotted with palm-trees (Elaeis guineensis), their tall slender stems crowned with crests of graceful drooping plumes, and bearing a respectable fortune in the palm-oil contained in the closely clustering bunches of nuts on each tree. Hundreds of acres are under cultivation, mainly yams, cotton and capsicums, the last-named glowing like little tongues of flame among the glossy winding trails of the yams, which, at a distance, resemble smilax on a magnificent scale. Away, beyond, rise the blue hills, in a huge circle, jealously shutting in this little green paradise from the tiresome world of restless white folks, who would take count of time, make roads, try to introduce sanitation, and otherwise employ themselves in fruitless and unnecessary works to the dire discomfort of the peaceful denizens of peaceful places! The ancient wall stretches away across the plain, enclosing an area of which Kabba town to-day occupies possibly one-hundredth part. A second inner boundary wall surrounds the town proper, excluding the steep little hill crowned by the Fort, which is now in as bad a state of repair as the aged walls themselves, but which, three years ago, was nevertheless the abiding-place of a small military detachment, and a handful of native police, in fact, the English Quarter of Kabba, whence might be heard any morning ringing words of command in English, bugle-calls all day long, and at evening-time the native sentry challenging all and sundry with ‘Holl!-who-go-thaire!’ in his most awe-inspiring tone. This ‘English Quarter’ was the only aspect of Kabba that had the power of damping my spirits, beside the literal and visible damping of our belongings which took place pretty regularly. Our quarters were a rambling, ill-constructed clay building, measuring a good sixty feet from end to end; the crumbling mud walls and ant-eaten, collapsing wooden supports surmounted by a painfully inadequate thatched roof. This house, incredible as it may seem, was designed by an Englishman, whose desire for spaciousness and magnificence of proportion evidently outweighed his knowledge of elementary architecture, and blinded his foresight. How the native labourers must have smiled, and patiently shrugged their shoulders, as they piled up the ridiculous structure under his imperious orders!
Meantime, the tornadoes swept up over the hills to the South and West, tearing like a white wall across the plain, and wreaking their fury on this ill-fated hill-top in a most thorough-going fashion. At such a time it made one giddy to look up at the roof, while it creaked and swayed horribly in the hurricane, each gust seeming to bring the inevitable collapse nearer. We had spent rainy seasons in Africa before, so we took no needless risks, and in the places most essential for our comfort, we rigged up tents and ground-sheets, thus securing to ourselves and a percentage of our belongings islands of comparative safety and dryness; but, for the rest...! I never could help smiling at the sight of the Sahib, manfully getting through his day’s work, interviewing the chiefs and headmen of various neighbouring villages, with the rain pouring through the roof, and an umbrella held over his head, while his guests squatted around him, placidly enduring the ceaseless streams of water pattering on their persons, and displaying as much polite cheerfulness as the circumstances would permit.